Stay With Me
by casfics
Summary: Broken and vulnerable by the heartless actions of a colleague, Alicia is left struggling to come to terms with that night. As PTSD manifests, she blocks the world out around her the only way she knows how. It is a battle of ex-partner & best friend Ethan to save her from isolation and spiralling downwards even further, but there are consequences for him further down the line.
1. chapter 1

'Drink?'

Half expecting no answer anyway, he begins to pour wine from the bottle between his trembling fingers.

Red. That red. _Their red._

A splash of liquid surfs the rim and trickles on the counter below: once grey, it has been decorated with a week's worth of crumbs and grime. Deviating from her meticulous nature is most unlike her. Alicia was always cleaning and tickling round his flat with a feather duster when they were together, even though he told her to put her feet up, often accompanying it with a silly song. Despite being spectacularly tone deaf, she was happiest making sure everything was just right and tidy. Now she is hunched up on the sofa before him and things have never been more wrong.

'You remembered,' she says flatly, snatching it out his hand and pressing it to her lips.

'I never forgot anything.' Ethan moves a cushion off the sofa and ten inches from her.

Her expression is mixture of sorrow and understanding. Guilt washes through his veins at the sight of her so destroyed.

He takes a large gulp of the wine and doesn't wince when it burns the roof of his mouth. A temporary sting is incomparable with her turmoil: he knows he would take her pain ten times over just to see her smile again.

Alcohol needs to strengthen him and shut out the whining, nagging narrative on a loop in his head like a stuck record: you left her and she needed you and you. left. her. But, in the absence of sobriety, he can handle everything just a little more smoothly. He drinks some more.

Tears well and glisten in the depths of her sunken eyes.

Numbly, he observes the rain lashing against the roof. A pause. Thunder rumbles loudly. It wouldn't be appropriate to pass comment on the weather or any other triviality after what she had been through. Clearly she wasn't open to conversation anyway, and he couldn't be certain she'd even forgiven him for leaving. That she even wanted to chat.

'Not exactly June weather.'

'Certainly not,' he agrees quickly. 'It wasn't in the forecast.'

'Life is full of surprises,' she replies.

Ethan recalls he has had less awkward conversations with the neighbour about the faulty heating in the building, or the workers about the condom stuck to the dustbin lid. Even making stilted small talk to the unfortunate passenger enduring the smell of his egg mayo meal deal was easier than trying to talk to her. They aren't strangers, yet it feels they might as well be.

'What did you do today?' he asks.

Ten seconds pass and he fails to work out whether she is consciously ignoring him, or simply just hasn't heard.

'Alicia—'

'What? S-sorry, did you speak?'

His expression softens. 'What did you do today?'

'I, uh, I watched some TV and made a meal.'

'Something vegan?'

'Unfortunately I have a penchant for halloumi and mozzarella and no will power, so...'

They both chuckle a little too loudly.

'Just pesto pasta, nothing too fancy. I put some in Tupperware in the fridge if you're hungry.'

'I've just eaten on the way back from work. But- I'm sure it tastes great.' He nods enthusiastically.

She raises an eyebrow at him. 'It's alright, yeah. It's only pasta.'

'You are good at cooking though.'

'You used to accuse me of poisoning your lunches when I used to make them.'

'I meant it in jest because you never left out the tomatoes.'

She drains the wine. 'Well, whatever. I'm no Mary Berry.'

They fall silent again and he kicks himself for his wooden responses, peppered with compliments and flattery. As if she wasn't going to see through it and recognise the pity. The rain hits the glass windows harder. Tension is palpable and both of them know the other well enough to imagine his burning questions about what actually happened.

Being a man of depth, Ethan hates all things superficial and meaningless. He couldn't care less about her food choices — he wants to dig for the stories she hasn't yet told. There is a distinct sense of responsibility too. He knows he has wronged and wants to compensate for his absence, wants to fix it all with a determination almost childlike.

She casts the empty glass aside and locks eyes with him bravely. 'If I knew where to begin, I promise I would.'

'You're not under any pressure,' he replies evenly.

Alicia wipes her eyes furiously. 'It's going to change everything so much.'

'You can work through anything. I will support you. I got your call tonight and now I am here. All I know is that you were going to tell me last week and then whatever it is has become unmanageable. Tell me. A problem shared is a problem halved.'

'But you won't know what to do,' she says thickly, weakly.

He pales slightly. 'Try me.'

After a long hesitation, she rummages beneath her for phone and clasps it in both hands, concealing the screen.

'What is it, Alicia? You're worrying me!'

'Just say you won't leave.'

Exasperated, he leans forward and peels her fingers off the device in a thoughtless, panicky movement. She begins to sob hysterically, head in hands.

His thumb scrolls wildly and punches in the number combination he could recall in his sleep. None of the words are making sense and are merely more than jumbled letters on a screen. Another swipe and he pulls up the search history. He tells himself he's jumped to conclusions. He would have known. Nothing like that could ever happen to her, not—

Her breath comes in hiccups as her lungs rummage for oxygen, eyes red raw, skin blotchy, hair scraped back and bedraggled, bitten nails of the fingers desperately clamping her lips shut to prevent more noise escaping.

His mouth dries and he has forgotten how to breathe.


	2. chapter 2

A shrill chime of the doorbell jolts Ethan up from the kitchen table and forces him to stand, his mind betraying his achy legs as it urges them to stand and take steps. He closes the laptop lid quickly to disguise his own Google searches.

He wearily checks his watch before pulling the door open. It's three minutes past 12.

A bewildered Eddie looks up at him, illuminated by the glow of the porch security light, and dressed in black from head to toe. 'Wh- why are you- is Alicia in?'

'She is,' he replies tersely. 'Fast asleep in bed. Or should I say the sofa.'

'Why?' He asks nonchalantly.

Ethan briefly has time to examine the figure before him. Barely even a graduate, he is a stranger in the world of medicine. And women. Ignorance replaces the impression of malice he'd formed over the past three hours. Going home with her had clearly been a novelty, akin to setting a toddler free in a sweet shop. He had set his eyes on the prize and waded straight in.

'I think you should go,' he manages flatly. 'Haven't you seen the time?'

'Come on, man, the evening is only just beginning!'

Ethan takes a step forward. 'For some.'

'Listen, man, I want to see—'

'Stop calling me that. She is fast asleep in bed and has no desire to see you after the other night. She didn't like it, or-or _want_ it.'

'That's what she tells you,' smirks Eddie, running his fingers through his hair.

Sickened, his face hardens. 'Men like you are the reason women don't want to settle in relationships. She was your mentor. Not only did you cross a line, but it was a line she decided she didn't want to cross.'

'But I get it,' says Eddie petulantly. 'She slept with me and then felt like she was letting her hair down too much. One night stands aren't for everyone. Because of that thing you had that time, she's gone crying to you. All girls do it.'

'So it's happened before, has it? You forcing yourself on people?'

Eddie glares. 'That's not what I'm saying. That is not what I did.'

'Besides, we never had a "thing". You make it sound like I did exactly what you did. Contrary to popular belief, there's such a thing as respect for the person you're with.'

'Look man, go home. I wanted to pop over and see if she was up for any more fun. I need to speak to her either way.'

Ethan's skin crawls and it takes great effort to not do him great harm: he had it pictured in his mind, how he would respond when he next saw him at work, how he would make him pay. However, the unsolicited appearance on the doorstep has taken the foundations of his plan and trodden them into the ground.

But, before his eyes, Eddie's face transforms and his expression turns much more gentle.

Something behind him.

Shoulders hunched, Alicia is standing in the doorway. She takes a few paces and then pauses perfectly on the carpet like a cartoon image.

They all fall silent waiting for her next move. It doesn't come.

'You need to leave.' Ethan says steadily.

'You don't understand, let her speak—'

He begins to close the door, but Eddie puts his foot in it.

'I mean it — go.'

'Go?' Eddie repeats aggressively. 'Cause you'd like that, wouldn't you?'

'I have no qualms whatsoever about ringing the police, so I highly suggest you do as I say.'

'No police!' Alicia gabbles, looking even more frightened.

'You heard her, Doc,' says Eddie, squaring up closer to him. 'No police. You're the only one fighting a battle here. You'd be laughed away if you so much as approached any copper.'

The distinct smell hits him immediately: alcohol mixed with cigarettes and God knows what else. Familiar with heavy drinking too. In fact, he was probably under the influence whe—

Suddenly Ethan is furious.

 _He's killed a man before._

He flashes her an apologetic look and briskly steps outside, shutting the door behind him.

He mutters every single word until Eddie eventually looks slightly frightened and manages to put off his stutter, delivering every syllable with force and meaning. It isn't long before he sees him skulk off down the path and into his car, speedily driving away.

As his finger hovers over the keys of the phone, he wonders if it would be worth mentioning to the call handler that drink-driving under the influence was yet another offence of his.

-x-x-x-x-

His limbs feel as if they are made of lead as he walks back inside. He is still so casual, despite having just made a 999 call. Fleetingly, he wonders how life does that: instills a sense of calm when it matters most.

'Alicia, you alright?'

Silence. He waits and hopes for a response. It doesn't worry him too much when he doesn't get one — being mute in the circumstances is understandable.

As not to add to the carpet's inch of dust and mud, he removes his brogues on the mat. Laces remain tied and he thoughtlessly squishes down the backs to take them off. They were a small fortune, the price of one shoe being enough to buy his food for a month. Normally he makes a conscious effort to keep them looking as pristine and smart as they were the day he bought them. But there is more to life than shoes, he thinks. Much more to life than—

Lying in a crumpled ball, much like a snail retreating into its shell in wet weather, Alicia has settled down to sleep on the carpet. His mind races as he attempts to search for the least poorly judged solution. Leaving her there would be just as inappropriate as moving her would. And he can't let her neglect herself and just stand by.

He dithers, exhaustion being an obstacle to clear thinking. Briefly he is thankful that his own fatigue hasn't become so severe or painful that he resorted to falling asleep in such an uncomfortable place. There is a strange sense of familiarity as he looks down at her because it is her but also he sees himself, grieving for Cal and in such a state. Pain does weird things to people.

'Up you come,' whispers Ethan, clumsily scooping her up. 'Not a comfy place to nap.'

Surprisingly, she doesn't wake after being hauled into his arms. His back strains a little with the weight and he wonders where to put her. Or where to put himself, for that matter. He was so caught up in thinking about her ordeal that he'd stayed awake and not even worked out sleeping arrangements.

Before he'd got to her place, he sort of assumed they would resolve their differences and rekindle quite literally in her bed. The bed is out of the question.

His own eyes try to flicker closed and even matchsticks wouldn't be fantastic at helping him stay awake. Caffeine is the drug he needs, but making a coffee would mean leaving her, however momentarily.

They sink back down to sitting on the sofa where she had been sleeping earlier. The fleece blanket dug out from underneath is still crinkled, still half-warm.

Alicia doesn't wake but curls up once more, tucking her legs and arms into herself. His mind feels like it's floating with tiredness: thoughts aren't even coming in a sensible order anymore. He briefly wonders about the police, then Eddie, somewhere in that red Fiat, then her, how beautiful she still looks despite it all, hopes she won't freak out if she wakes in his arms, _prays it was the right split second decision_ —

He drifts off.


	3. chapter 3

_A/N: thank you for all the reviews and follows lovelies!_

 **{Triggers for sensitive themes}**

He stirs in the early hours of the morning to a shuffling, a scrambling off the sofa.

'What time is it?' he asks, only just having time to clumsily catch her phone as she tosses it his way on impulse. 'Oh- it's three but... you have a text. I think.'

Alicia tugs the dressing material tighter as she folds her arms over her chest, a protective mechanism. She appraises him a little before swallowing and nodding.

'Who from?'

'From Eddie, I- I can delete it now, if that's what you want. You don't have to even see it.'

'Well, what does it say?'

He dithers at the Geordie lilt of her curiosity. 'You really shouldn't see.'

'Just pass it here. I've got thick enough skin.'

Ethan heaves his body upright with great effort and reluctantly passes the phone over, recoiling when it's snatched out of his grasp. Sure, he could feel offended, but he knows the aloof composure she is trying to maintain is only a mask for the bubbling panic.

It is swelteringly hot, the living room. Dark and damp. Nobody bothered with the thermostat, which would explain why they are being cooked alive in July. The only light is given only by the display of her iPhone — one tiny device that might as well be a ticking time bomb. Her slender fingers are wrapped around the object, eyes glued to the screen. Even the slowest of readers would have processed the message by now. But everything has ground to a halt.

'Don't worry, I rung the police last night,' he mentions quietly. 'No other solution seemed viable. Drink lingered on his breath and clothes and he drove here in that state. It doesn't bode well for him. They were assuring and they sent officers out to look for him, he's probably even been arrested by now.'

There is a disconcerting thud of the phone dropping to the carpet. Despite being essentially blind, due to both darkness and walkabout glasses, he senses the vibes in the air without so much as seeing her face: confusion and disgust. Though neither has spoken, the silence has evolved wordlessly.

'It isn't something to be scared of. This is a massive relief. He won't hurt you, me, _anyone else_ —'

'Officers,' repeats Alicia a little oddly. 'Did you call the officers?'

'Yes, I called the police a few hours ago. You are safe now.'

'Police officers.'

He weaves his fingers together, a dull ache settling in his chest. Suddenly the room feels a lot cooler.

'Turn the light on and then we can talk a bit better. No use sitting in the dark if we're awake anyway!'

'Switch,' she repeats and duly flicks it on.

A muscle twitches involuntarily in the corner of his right eye. Smoothing out his chinos, he forces an earnest smile. 'You sitting down?'

She lowers herself to the floor a little clumsily.

'I meant on the sofa! The floor is much too uncomfortable. Come on—'

His enthusiasm is greeted with a long, hard stare, so alien that he is compelled to quieten. All he wants to do is help. It seems ridiculously unfair that he — after sacrificing his evening and peace of mind so thoughtlessly — would be rewarded with hostility.

He can't even begin to imagine how it must have felt to endure such torture. To think she was so dehumanised, degraded, brushes aside, stripped from life and courage by a cowardly colleague who was nothing more than a stranger at the time. He shivers. To bottle up that secret for so long and bear the weight of the burden alone must have been unthinkable.

 _And she was so alone._

Alicia has been known by him to get herself into sticky situations and some right old fixes — impetuosity combined with gargantuan trust in people is a recipe for being taken advantage of. Granted, she never does learn, but it doesn't make him any less guilty when he sees her bruised and broken once more. Her "strong independent woman" front only gets her so far: she needs someone to lean on and be guided by too. Not necessarily a knight in shining armour, but someone to stick the pieces back together when everything implodes.

Perhaps it is resentment that's causing her behaviour. The cruel hamartia of her best friend — his selfish tendency to orientate all life's problems around himself. _He left, after all_. He was a fool that night. His own inaction is through and through unforgivable, and the more bitter she is, the more he gets his own comeuppance.

She is fiddling with a loose thread on the sofa and he feels his stomach churn.

'Alicia? Can I get you anything?' he asks eventually.

No reply breaks the stagnancy of the air.

He sighs listlessly and tries not to patronise. 'If you don't want to talk things through, we might as well try and get some sleep. Things are never clear when your head is all- fuzzy. I understand why you might be cross and you have every right to be.'

'I'm wide awake now.'

'You can speak to me and offload whatever you like. I'm only here to listen.'

'How?'

'Sit up here and that's a start,' says Ethan, clearing a space by brushing cushions onto the floor. 'Begin by saying anything you don't want to keep to yourself.'

She tucks her knees up to her chest. 'I meant, how am I supposed to confide in you when you weren't even there to start with?'

He feels the sting like a liquid burn: intensifying and spreading in seconds until its coverage is too much to bear.

'I'm here now. I would turn back time if I could.'

'But you can't,' replies Alicia with a snivel. 'Don't say pointless things. The heartbreak was mine to have.'

'You can't see life in that way. Nothing was coming to you and none of this is your fault. Fate is just some made up social construct designed to control the masses, it's ridiculous—'

'Thanks Mr Morality.'

'Alicia!'

He rises up and heads after her into the kitchen, taking two strides for every one of her paces. The worry of freaking her out has been superseded in seconds by his frustration. There was no need for her to be derisive. He was trying to help, Christ.

When she turns, eyes glistening, he fatally misses the opportunity to give her the space she has sought.

'I want to be alone.'

'You told me otherwise, hence why I stayed—'

'Can't I change my mind? You are _just_ like Eddie. All men are the same.'

His eyes water. 'Oh, don't you dare.'

'You act like you have all the answers, pretending you know exactly what to do! It's suffocating! Do this and do that and it really isn't your fault, Alicia. Whose fault is it if not mine? I missed all the warning signs — every single last one. It was me who got drunk and me who kissed him first and me who showed him the way back to my house. All me and I acted out of spite because of our chat in the staffroom.'

'Does it have to be anyone's fault?'

'Yes! I have to blame right now. Let me believe in fate if I want. It isn't one bit reassuring to think it was all down to him. I could have protected myself and I let myself down!'

'It's like treading on eggshells, Alicia, I am just trying to get my words out right, but it's bloody impossible—'

'So leave me be to collect myself alone!'

'You know I can't do that after seeing you so distraught.'

There is a cacophony of morning birdsong that filters in through the open window as they fall silent, which causes her to weep. His expression collapses in helpless dismay.

'Go, go, _go_ — _leave_ , Ethan, get out, get _out_ , go, I want to be alone—'

Her cries turn animalistic in nature and pitch: low and gravelly and threatening. Each syllable is delivered shakily, interspersed with desperate gulps for air, eyes red raw and skin blotchier than a toddler after a succession of tantrums. His mind goes completely blank. Never in all his years of experience with people has he had to deal with something so akin to a hurricane, unstoppable and destructive and grief-stricken.

This is a battle, whether he wants it or not, and it is blatant that nobody will be a winner. His mental block has allowed an opportunistic Alicia to manoeuvre him, shoving him four feet from the kitchen floor to an inch from the back door where daylight seeps in.

She goes for the handle but he's a fraction of a second quicker. His fingers curl around the plastic and he turns to face her.

'I promise you it will get better,' he says steadily. 'Trust me.'

Alicia falls to her knees on the linoleum and he quickly realised she is far too hurt, too exhausted to listen.

Her arms flail upwards as she sits and he crucially misunderstands, helping her upright once more. Hysteria kicks in and reaches a terrible crescendo.

No more tears, just noise, and he realises dehydration is not a helpful factor in the situation. Shakily, he reaches for a cup to fill with tap water but it's knocked out of his hands when she jerks suddenly, nearly tipping them both over with force. Ethan silently thanks his reflexes for still working on next to no sleep whatsoever.

And just like that, there is a blissful moment of peace. Sobbing cuts out immediately and she hesitates in front of him before leaning closer, sorrow painted over her face, and he goes to envelope her in his arms because it is _over_ and she _couldn't help the outburst_ and _thank God the morning always comes indefinitely._

Either his timing is woefully poor, or she changes her mind split second, but she flinches and shudders and pulls back from him.

He keeps the confusion from his face as he watches her, but he truly doesn't understand the whirlwind he has just witnessed. Her actions are so cryptic, it's impossible for even the most intuitive to ascertain whether it was all calculated or genuinely nothing more than a spontaneous accident.

'It's okay,' he smiles weakly. 'Try to take some deep breaths.'

It happens before he can process it. Alicia is furious, angrier than ever before, pummelling her fists against him in the worst way, like she is determined to inflict pain, make someone hurt like she is hurting, give him the blows meant for the wrongdoing of another man.

With one of his hands he manages to stop her before any damage is done, restraining her gently for the good of them both, and she buries her face in his chest with a muffled sob bereft of anger.

She is sorry without saying the word.

There is a knock on the door down the hallway and someone speaks — police — here for a chat and hoping it isn't too unsociable a time.

They exchange glances and fear is striking in her eyes.

'The morning always comes,' says Ethan, interlocking their fingers and glancing back to the front door.


	4. chapter 4

The woman speaks first once they are seated on the sofa.

'I'm PC Davidson and this is PC Brooks. Do you mind if we speak to you first, Ethan? It's just following procedure.'

'I-'

All eyes turn to Alicia as she tries to utter a syllable, then falls quiet, helpless once more. Even to someone ignorant, her distress is apparent: spending the night awake has only contributed to her unkempt appearance.

She looks _ill_.

He gives her a little nod. 'It's okay.'

'I was going to, uh, offer to make some coffees. I have squash too, or milk, or- or wine! White!'

Each looks bemused at the attempt of humour.

'We're driving, tempting though that offer is!' exclaims PC Brooks, if only to make her feel less awkward, glancing across at his colleague carefully. 'Two teas and sugar in one if you wouldn't mind.'

'Course!' she gives a quick wave of the hand before turning and flouncing out the room.

It is an impulse for Ethan to levitate out of the chair, hovering and peering. He fails to be discreet and in doing so induces a small, polite cough from both officers simultaneously. He hasn't purposefully shut them out. Questioning is of utmost importance to him — anything to quicken the process of showing Eddie's true colours. However, his mind is clouded with fatigue, and occupied almost entirely with her.

PC Davidson is eyeing him dubiously, papery crinkles of confusion in her young skin hidden well by a curl of blonde hair escaping from her hat. Maybe she sees he is a complex character, murderer material. It wouldn't be a lie. Or she might be thinking he is being deliberately obtuse. That he exaggerated the allegations, or he is strange for feeling jumpy over the most routine of things like his friend making hot drinks. All of these things would be true in their own way: he let a man die for justice and he had emphasised the bad side of his former mentee and Alicia was dealing with boiling water despite being so shaky.

'Sorry, mate, is it alright if you could give us your full attention?' PC Brooks finally asks.

'Of course, I- I just worry about her. Neither of us have slept, and—'

'It is fine.' PC Davidson assures. 'I have here that you made a complaint against Eddie McAllister at 12:33am this morning. Is that correct?'

'Yes.' Ethan says, running his hands over his knees.

'And you wish to pursue this?'

'I do, yes.'

'Okay. Can you describe your relationship with Mr McAllister?'

'Doctor, actually,' Ethan corrects. 'He transferred to the E.D. of Holby City Hospital around March 2018 as a graduate in medicine. It was intermittent work at first, but became a regular position after we had staffing changes. I didn't have much to do with him as I was occupied trying to complete my consultancy exams, which I'm pleased to say I did successfully. It was... a busy time.'

He thinks about the blog, the _cry for help_ , that _one fleeting night_ where every second was precious and then how _he shouted the day after_ and feels sick.

'So he was a colleague?' asks PC Brooks.

'That's right. He was assigned to Dr. Alicia Munroe so that she could mentor him, but then became assigned to me as from a few days ago. It was Alicia herself who requested the change for personal reasons. I thought no more of it and agreed without knowing the reasons why at that point.'

'Describe your relationship with Alicia for us.' PC Davidson says flatly.

It is a perfectly reasonable question but his mind is blank, focused only on how her pen is hovering an inch above the paper. Ready to scrawl his heart on the paper. He can't bear all to a stranger.

'I don't think words do it justice,' says Ethan thinly. 'I am not sure they could ever.'

The officers exchange glances.

'Can you try?' PC Davidson prompts, eyes wide, coaxing him like you would a child.

'Friends and ex-partners.'

'That all?' PC Brooks asks sceptically.

A loud yelp followed by a sharp intake of breath reaches their ears and his muscles jump into action, springing up, driving him into the kitchen leaving the police behind, perplexed and muttering something. It is all inconsequential to him. They make it clear enough they are on borrowed time but they are likely going home to families and safe houses after shifts with laughter and love. He is on borrowed time to fix Alicia, who is seemingly doing more and more damage to herself.

She is standing by the kettle. Her right hand clutches her left, feet frozen to the floor in fear, eyes squeezed shut, lips clamped together.

'Scald?' he asks, yanking her arm under the light and turning the cold tap on haphazardly. 'Stay like this for ten minutes.'

'I spilt it all on the floor,' says Alicia miserably. 'Now they don't have drinks. I can't even make cups of tea—'

'They are not going to care about drinks!' he hisses.

Her lip wobbles and he half feels like waiting for her to snap out of it, to bend over laughing and hooting that it's all one big joke and she's never known a person so gullible as he, and—

'Is everything alright?' PC Davidson appears at the door, obviously having heard the commotion.

'We've just had an accident with the water,' replies Ethan, throwing down a tea towel and mopping the floor with his socked foot quickly. 'Be through in a minute.'

The woman takes her cue and duly plods back into the living room.

'Focus on your hand and we can sort this later. Come through when you're ready.'

Though still concerned, Ethan leaves her and goes back through apologetically. The police look visibly bored, no matter how much they try to disguise it. He feels at once paranoid they perceive him to be a time waster. The case is the most paramount of all: he owes it to himself and her to prevail. Justice didn't exist when his brother was fatally wronged. But it will exist now. He manages a wide smile in a bid to inform the police, though subtly, he will cooperate as much as is necessary.

Even if it means finding answers to the tough questions.


	5. chapter 5

_thank you so much for all your lovely reviews, they make my day_

 **TW: graphic descriptions of injury**

Warm milk has become a comfort to Alicia in the past 24 hours. She doesn't know why. An antidote to the attack. Reminiscing helps make it all feel better. It gets in the way of her wish to "go green" and be vegan for a year.

Meanwhile, Ethan throws the tea towel back over the countertop and sits to his laptop at the kitchen table, bleary eyed and hair tousled. He is giving her space. Space like he would want. It isn't like she is at her most conversational anyway. His search history includes ' _calcium overdose_ ' and ' _adults with milk addiction_ ' and ' _benefits of milk drinking'_ , though his research has unsurprisingly been of little help. She has it in a mug. It isn't the way he stood at the pan until his feet ached that is making him think twice, nor gently cooling the liquid down by the open window until he felt number than a statue. Simply because after the events of the morning, it wasn't worth the risk of her shaking hands leading to another scald. He is dwelling so profoundly on events because of his part in it. His occupation with Leigh-Anne that ultimately caused it all. There is no shaking or explaining that feeling of remorse.

Blue top. Health wise, he knows she should have green. Her calorie intake has decreased to minimal and food makes her tense up, so he has realised full-fat is probably in her best nutritional interests. But what would he know? Doctoring her is not going to make everything right, he thinks scathingly. Anger replaces concern due to his futile thoughts.

The cashier in the corner shop recognised him as he made his second trip of the day and raised an eyebrow in greeting. Whilst he was dithering in the fridge, the bloke had remarked "fatherhood treating you well'. And Ethan was too exhausted to explain otherwise. It is hard to tell someone, a complete stranger, that your purple shadows and repeat trip to buy milk in bulk is actually for a fully grown woman. So, drunk with fatigue, he had plodded off to the car, making a note to drive the extra ten minutes to the little off licence in the opposite direction next time.

He stares blankly at the screen and the screen stares back. He is trying to avoid a coffee fix, since the milk is scarce and taking it black might likely give him terminal insomnia.

'E—'

He leaps up at the syllable, the utterance, taking a few strides into the living room where he left her with the drink ten minutes before.

'You alright?' He asks tentatively. 'Can I get you anything — water, perhaps?'

'I feel sick,' mumbles Alicia tiredly. 'My throat is doing that seizing thing.'

Ethan crouches down at the side of the sofa. 'You are looking peaky.'

'I want to vom—'

'It's a sugar rush from the milk and just nausea,' he says calmly, confidently, squeezing her clammy hand. 'It will pass.'

'Will it?' she asks weakly, rolling her head back on the sofa.

'Sure. Twenty minutes or so and you'll be right as rain. I've been googling all about the benefits of excess milk consumption. Lots, you know. Vitamin D, for starters, but we knew that already. Lots of healthy fats, sugars—'

She smiles ruefully at his fountain of knowledge. 'I mean, I just drink it because it's warm and caffeine free.'

'Does it bring back memories?'

'Used to have a bottle of milk on a night until I was six. Made my dad think I was delayed, but it made me feel like the adults with their wine glasses at the dinner parties. Started on the champers not long after.'

He chuckles.

'Bet you liked the odd beverage growing up.'

'Bollocks. I had Schlœr, even at Christmas until I was 25!' He rises and fiddles with the lamp, dimming it a little to stop the harsh glare.

'That's what Cal had you think.' She smirks now, glancing up at him.

Good, Ethan thinks fleetingly, that the joke is at his expense. She is smiling. That is enough. A sock-footed and resolute, bedraggled figure of hilarity. And also familiarity. So he continues.

'Do you know something I don't then?'

'Mm, let's just say he liked to bring out the vodka on special occasions. He didn't ply you with it, but he enjoyed to make cocktails and tell you they were healthy concoctions. All green smoothie? You apparently believed him. Made you more open to a laugh. He told me on uh, a night out I think.'

'Nice,' he says pointedly. 'I'm now gullible as well as an ignorant alcoholic?'

Alicia laughs for a few seconds and then halts abruptly. He recognises the pallor of her face and deftly drags the nearest container he can see — the paper bin. Despite his best efforts, his speed does not match her urgency and she is sick: over herself, over his shoes and the arm of the sofa. A strangled noise escapes her lips, too severe to be related to the vomiting episode. Her eyes are brimming with tears as she struggles to catch her breath, coughing, spluttering, hitching.

'If I had a pound for the number of times our bodily fluids have ended up covering each other, I could resign right—'

'Please don't—' she groans, waving a hand to silence him.

He quietens immediately and rubs her back, pausing only to peel the strands of hair from her face. 'I meant sick, of course. I should have just said sick.'

'I thought bodily fluids was more apt. You don't have to tiptoe round me just because of what happened.'

'You need some new clothes,' Ethan idly recognises, changing the subject with skill. 'How about a tepid bath?'

'Tepid?' She repeats with scorn.

'To bring any slight temperature of yours down again.'

She is quiet and wraps her arms around herself, glancing downwards towards her chest in anguish. At once he feels guilty, careless for forgetting even for a second. Too late. She has glazed over, almost retreated back into the shell he'd hoped he was finally prising open: a protective mechanism to stay composed and not even entertain the idea of seeing her bruises. Though he feels like sighing, he doesn't. If he started, he would never stop, plus she needs positivity more than anything else.

'Or,' he fumbles underneath him for a packet he'd stashed under the sofa a couple of days before. 'Do things the student way?'

Her eyes widen with sudden interest.

'Wet wipe wash. Look, you've got to clean up at some point. There is no major rush. The only way you overcome this — all of this — is by conquering the world with strength I know you have, even if you have to pretend for a while. You can't languish in dirt. There will be ways that you can approach daily life comfortably. I promise I will help where I can. Does Nibbles ever give up, or does he just pester more and more?'

'Pesters the living daylight out of people.'

'Exactly,' he gives an encouraging nod and passes her a baby wipe. 'I will be through in the kitchen getting the laundry from the dryer. Might be a bit creased but the clothes will be ready to wear shortly. I used extra softener too.'

She eyes him wearily, confused.

'Yes, I know I'm usually frugal with it, but Lenor reminds me of home, and I thought since you had some in I would—'

'Stay.'

'Sorry?'

'You heard,' she says with a swallow. 'You need to see.'

In a moment he's scarcely breathing. Everything he wondered about and worried about was about to be displayed before his eyes. All the trust she was putting in him is not to be forgotten. Her arms lift above her head and she quickly wriggles out of the shapeless nightshirt, transforming her image of prisoner to the most basic version of herself. Bruises dapple her once-ivory skin like a mosaic, shades of deep crimsons, round like bullet wounds. They look sore and angry, threatening to develop into richer colours.

It feels sinful to eye her up in this way now she is so damaged. Christ, he had always hated either of them being exposed in the cold light of day when they were a couple, and always insisted on turning the lights off. But Alicia cannot be in the dark anymore. Not even for a second. Fleetingly he wonders what he could say to make her feel like less of an exhibition, but no attempt at humour would be appropriate. The last thing he wants to do is make things worse and gasp in horror, but he has seen a plethora of fight victims in his work who have looked less worse for wear. And now an alien emotion he doesn't recognise: sordid guilt.

'I-I'm sorry,' he breathes finally. 'I don't think I quite anticipated the extent of it.'

She rotates so her back is visible. 'Nor did I. In fact, the first time I looked was when you'd gone to the shop.'

'Oh Alicia—'

'Maybe I can tell everyone I went paintballing, clumsily tripped down the stairs on my way for a wee,' she says sunnily, picking at a loose thread on the sofa cushion. 'Convince Hanssen to let me do a surgical rotation and wear full length scrubs for a few weeks.'

'Not sure that would be wise,' he reminds gently. 'Are you sure you want to jump straight back in?'

'I don't have another choice. Life goes on. All staying off will do is rouse suspicion in others, make staffing and rotas difficult, and leave me stuck at home bored feeling even more like the victim.'

'Just make sure you give yourself time to come to terms with things. No harm was ever done by waiting.'

'You are wise, aren't you?'

She briskly tugs a jumper over her head, half-damp from drying on the radiator. It is difficult to ascertain from her tones if she was being meaningful or sarcastic. Either way, it is apparent the interaction caused her to change her mind about continuing to let him gawp at the damage. Her expression has soured and she swallows once before turning away for good.

'I get it,' lies Ethan. 'It isn't that I am not supportive of you. Quite the converse, I want you to really think and don't be hard on yourself. You are allowed to just think of yourself. I wouldn't refuse to let you be passenger tomorrow morning, but you know at least as well as I do how gruelling that early morning will be—

'Stop falling over yourself to try and win me over, it's exhausting!' Alicia blurts, rising and flouncing off into the kitchen.

His eyes close and he sighs listlessly, realising his feelings of rejection are his own fault. Wedged under him is the TV remote. He flicks it on. Politics, another assault fifty miles away. Nothing new. The subtitles whizz across the screen and he follows them until his eyes hurt.

And the woman in the kitchen, who he would bet his monthly wages is guzzling the last few milk drops from the carton, is spectacularly wiser than him.

Life definitely goes on.


	6. chapter 6

Colleagues bustle past with patients and receptionists dash from desk to desk. Busy would be an understatement, Alicia thinks, and to her knowledge there is no good reason why everybody is devoid of their usual early morning leisurely pace.

A loud bang resonates through the corridor: the sound of heavy hospital doors slamming against the wall whilst a patient is wheeled in at speed. It is a wonder the paint hasn't yet chipped. Mrs Beauchamp would never have cause to financially justify putting the suggestion forward for automatic doors, but it is what goes through all of their heads each and every predictable time they are forced to leap out of their skin. Ear defenders would not go amiss.

'Ready to receive?' Iain asks, frantic eyes scouring the room for a vacant-looking colleague. 'I need to hand over now.'

'I'll do it,' Bea almost leaps forward.

'Unidentified male, approximately 30 years old. Been involved in an RTC and was a passenger in the lorry that the fire crew extracted him from. GCS 8, pulse thready, given one gram of IV paracetamol on route for the obvious bruising, tissue contusion and several fractured bones, including ribs—'

The jargon travels further away until it is out of earshot completely. Alicia knows deep down she should have followed her mentee, who is woefully lacking the experience to deal with such a difficult case. But she doesn't follow in to resus. Even though she peripherally spotted several colleagues flash her, as the acting most qualified, an urgent look.

Instead she wanders over to reception. 'Noel, what's today?'

'Far from the Q word? Friday the 13th? Unlucky if you are superstitious, I mean they say you have to see a black cat, otherwise—'

The usual jovial one-liners irritate her even further and she curls her toes into her trainers. 'I mean why on earth are we so busy?'

'Haven't you heard? New intake of F1s looking round. Not all for the department necessarily. Dr Hardy was speaking to Charlie earlier about how he was leaving it to you to oversee proceedings as he would be caught up in a meeting. There are about ten of them in the staff room with David.'

Her stomach flips, akin to the feeling of losing your keys, or phone, or getting home and remembering you left a carrier bag of shopping at the end of the checkout.

'They must have been there about half an hour,' continues Noel. 'I was sure you had spoken to them.'

Alicia puts a hand to her tired head and kneads a temple, searching back desperately through all the interactions she'd had. Awoke in the morning to a coffee. Rubbed bleary eyes and mumbled thanks to Ethan. Applied makeup until she had disguised the red and not really listened to what he was rambling on about: needing to get petrol before work, new discoveries in ventricular hypertrophy, BMA being downright unfair, _yes because he'd used the word downright and that was so comfortingly like him_ , cabinet reshuffle, health secretary being reappointed, something about junior doctors— shit.

She turns on her heel and almost sprints toward the staff room, contravening numerous health and safety rules. Before she opens the door a familiar wave of nausea hits her. Still, one of them enthusiastically makes eye contact through the glass, so she has little choice but to enter and greet them.

'Sorry about that! Breakdown in communication. I'm Dr Alicia Munroe. This is but the beginning of your journey in an NHS hospital trust,' sighs Alicia, meeting all the eager eyes. 'I take it Nurse Hide has familiarised you with our proceedings here?

David nods solemnly and everyone just smiles.

'Right then, it's time you were shown around. We are always busy but try not to let it make things any more daunting than they have to be. I was terrified when I first set foot in this place, but now I've worked my way up to a registrar post! This work is a challenge but you are more competent and capable than you would ever imagine.'

A woman with thick-rimmed glasses raises her hand nervously. 'Are we going to be assigned to a staff member? Do you have anything for us to sign? We were told before we left uni that there would be paperwork to complete and a framework to keep to, followed by notes to write up at the end of the day—'

All of the words go straight over Alicia's head. Puzzlingly, paperwork sounds about right yet she has no clue where to start. Having a printer that didn't malfunction might help somewhat. It would be a further half an hour she simply did not have to faff around printing things off. The graduate already sounds more informed than she and she is the one left, rather ironically, to run an entire department whilst her more qualified colleagues are upstairs in meetings all day. Ten faces stare back at her expectedly.

'Feel more than free to take your own notes, but directed lectures unfortunately won't be a feature of today due to current understaffing. When you are allocated to a deanery they will run through everything. Please rest assured our educational visits policy takes into account your safety for the duration, and nothing will be too hands on today,' Alicia manages to reply.

David frowns a little.

She continues on a roll. 'We are awaiting three current junior doctors to escort you around. I'm sure you can appreciate we are literally on our knees trying to treat and discharge today. Our waiting room is bursting at the seams full of hypochondriacs desperate for a minute of our already-borrowed time!'

'Dr Munroe—' David intervenes crisply. 'Why don't you find our visitors their lanyards?'

'Yeah,' she nods, giving the room one last bright smile. 'I'll be back in two minutes.'

-x-

'We need you—' Robyn comes bursting out of cubicles before she can process what's happening, dragging Alicia by the arm until her trainers scuff along the floor. 'Arterial bleed.'

'Move into resus now! Whose patient is it?' she snaps in response, hurrying over and tugging back the curtain.

She squashes a rogue polystyrene drinks cup and tosses it into the nearby sharps bin, shuddering at the feeling of responsibility for all the mess that has accumulated over the morning. Far from appropriate disposal but cleaners in the hospital are rare and therefore leaving it on a trolly isn't really an option.

Four people are huddled in the cubicle staring over the casualty, a young woman, making no successful effort to stem the source of the bleeding. Someone in scrubs — presumably a doctor — towers over the patient. Two makeshift dressings are being tightly clamped over the gushing wound, soaked in scarlet and dripping onto the sheets and the floor.

Her eyes widen and she barges the man out the way, recoiling instantly when he puts his calloused hands on her hips. For a fleeting second she doesn't even process it: finds the clamps, an adequate dressing, comforts the patient, works quickly and nimbly. The spurting stops and everyone visibly relaxes.

The fingers squeeze Alicia's waist a little and she jerks around at the foreign touch.

 _Eddie._

Chest tightening upon the realisation he hasn't been suspended, she jumps backwards suddenly, sending the sharps bin and its contents flying a metre in front of the bed. Stale tea pools out onto the floor and mixes with the congealing blood.

'How did this happen?' Alicia's voice catches, high and panicky. 'Why were they not immediately transferred into resus?'

Robyn shakes her head in confusion and draws the curtain so they are out of view. Two of the graduates join her in solidarity. 'I literally just arrived. Dr McAllister was showing the F1s a car crash patient with a blood clotting disorder.'

'You have collectively 25 years of medical education and nobody in there acted! I can't afford any level of incompetency in this department, Robyn, I expected better of you—'

'And where were you?' Robyn retorts.

'Admitting patients!' Alicia snaps.

Eddie pops outside, not resisting a smirk, and ruffles her hair until it falls out of its ponytail. 'You saved the day, bravo.'

Tears spring to her eyes. 'I want to see the notes.'

'Well I can tell you everything you need to know—'

'Dr McAllister, _show_ me the medical notes!' Alicia demands.

'22 years of age, admitted with... ongoing heroine addiction which has weakened the major blood vessels?!' Alicia raises her voice with incredulity. 'And someone left a sharps bin in the same room?'

Robyn's face transforms with horror and she dives behind the curtain. 'Oh no, no, no—'

Dirty needles left on the floor are a major hazard, Alicia knows this. A thin film of sweat crawls up her brow. HIV concern is a monumental disaster. The department has been practising dangerously and it is enough to strike someone off forever.

Probably her.

She almost rips the curtain off the rail as she yanks it open. The patient appears to be sleeping. To her dismay, it is one of the junior doctors who lies on the floor, his face washed a worrying shade of ivory and eyes rolled back. Clearly he was conscious of the risk before she could even process it, but his proactive decision to clear them up has cruelly backfired and resulted in his own injury. Everybody crouches beside him in shock. A needle protrudes from the cotton of his navy shirt like a perfectly aimed dart, and it is pretty obvious he has slipped and fallen by fluke. He has only been in the department for little over an hour. Health and safety documents were not printed off and signed.

A commotion begins to stir down the corridor and Alicia is vaguely aware of it between trying to make the guy comfortable. Hope bubbles inside at the thought someone has fetched all consultants from the meeting, but judging by the way things have gone, she doesn't count on it. All but Robyn who were present scarpered, and it is a tall order trying to establish what residual drug has worked its way into his bloodstream. They don't have the time or equipment or staff. Her heart hurts and desperation gnaws away at her; never a more promising and important person to treat and save. If she only does one thing all day, _just one_ —

'Dr Munroe!' Mrs Beauchamp asserts, slowing to a stop, not disguising her horror. 'My office immediately.'


	7. chapter 7

_A/N: I adore your reviews so much, they inspire me to write more. So pleased you lovely people are enjoying this and you are too complimentary!!_

Alicia snivels, loudly, and scrubs at her blotchy face with one-ply budget toilet paper. The only silver living to crouching in a grimy hospital cubicle is that nobody is there to stare, or to mutter, raise an eyebrow as she walks on past. Just her and the janitor that occasionally pops in with a new tool to fix the leaky tap. Her mind is clouded after the dressing down from Mrs Beauchamp. And although she hadn't been officially suspended, time off was quite obviously what the clinical lead was alluding to. Events of the morning had quite rightly made her furious. People could have died, after all.

Two women enter, giggling to each other and clomping off into respective cubicles in what she assumes are high heels. Who in their right mind would wear uncomfortable shoes to a hospital? Then she remembers: graduations are taking place in the surrounding unis. Anything goes. Somebody probably got injured amongst all the cap-throwing — it happened every year. In her own cohort of newly qualified doctors, three became injured simply through clumsiness when raising an arm to catch, or stumbling backwards accidentally and landing on someone else. Luckily the uni is attached to a teaching hospital, so she recalls how a bunch of them limped along to the AE department to be met with scorn and derision from more senior staff who recognised them as drunken students of theirs.

They sound young. She pauses and tries to listen in on their conversation. One of them is heartbroken because of a boyfriend ignoring them all day. Typical, she thinks. Anger bubbles inside her for another woman treated wrongly. Just like men not to be dependable. Forgetting to clamp her lips together momentarily, she accidentally lets a hiccup escape. Silence. Hushed mumbles. More giggling. Roaring of hand dryers, and, mercifully, the noise of a slamming door.

She briefly regains composure and glances towards the light. Ominous black specs are glued to the plastic casing, all spiders and insects that crawled somewhere warm and never did quite get out. And she knows the feeling of being trapped just as well. Her lungs heave to take in another breath and expel it shakily. It must be pushing an hour of hiding. At some point soon, facing up to her inaction will be the only choice left.

Another person enters the toilet whilst she is midway through blowing her nose. Oh god. They go to wash their hands, clearly opting for the broken one, and water hits the floor at speed, spurting out, _pulsating_ , just like that bleed.

Alicia is thankful for the noisy dryer this time as it drowns out another sob.

Faintly outside, she can hear talking. She wonders if it's the graduates lingering or perhaps the long awaited department cleaner. But something about the tone is different. The panic filtered through it, the urgency, the telltale stutter. Only the odd word is audible but the gabbling is enough to quell her tears.

'In here? Thanks so much.'

The door drops against the frame a little quieter, meaning someone else is with her in the room now. And she knows exactly who it is. Only one person in the world knows the weird places she would think to retreat.

'Alicia,' the voice speaks softly, not like a question. 'Come on out of there. It's been an hour.'

From inside the cubicle, she frantically swipes up on the screen of her iPhone and checks herself in the poor visibility of the camera. Thank God for doors, she thinks. She can only bear to look for two seconds. Black mascara trails down her cheeks make her look like an animation, a work of fiction, something horrible from a dramatic music video. She wishes she could teleport away, _zap_ , with the same ease of a cartoon character.

'At least see me before I'm frogmarched away and questioned for lingering in the women's toilets,' he persists.

Halfhearted comedy attempts are always so painfully like Ethan; she can actually feel her heart splitting in two. But he would never understand that his temperament alone worsens her pain, how could he? There he is trying his hardest, and there she is broken by the constant reminder of how life could have been so much different.

'I see how it is. You just want me to prove myself, or rather, my climbing skills. I went rock climbing with school as an extra-curricular until I was fifteen. This is piece of cake.'

There is a scuffle of rubber as trainers drag against the blue linoleum in the next cubicle, then on the plastic seat, the stall door. Getting closer. Invading the place she could shut the chaos out. At once the familiar sensation of impending panic grips her and she protectively turns to face the wall whilst uttering a last plea.

'No, no no no, please don't come in here, you don't want to!'

He jumps down with a thud almost impressive, wiping his hands on his scrubs like it was little more than a light challenge. His lungs suggest otherwise and he audibly struggles after the sudden exertion.

 _No._

She freezes. That breathing, the proximity, the noise, the heavy gasps, right behind her. Too loud and too real to shut out of her conscious mind.

Panic wildly blazes through her eyes as she spins around and catches sight of him. Ethan's own face falls in both horror and confusion. Only him. But those noises. Those noises. Exactly the same as—

'We are estranged now, practically strangers,' she gabbles. 'And you have to get out of here.'

'No, Alicia, I'm not going to sit back from afar watching you implode,' he replies stiffly.

'Implode?' she giggles uneasily, but the noise is strange.

His green eyes are sad and bereft of their usual sparkle, chipper default setting lost to concern. Clearly he is evaluating how much of a wreck she is: all of his thoughts are, as always, written all over his face. Sandy hair gets tugged apart strand by strand as his hand runs over his head, stressed.

'Someone could have died,' says Ethan evenly. 'Life or death. Patients don't have a million and one chances at recovery and that is why they come to us. We see some of the sickest people and it is our job to protect them at all costs.'

'I-I... I wanted to be able to, I tried to pick up the pieces, but—'

'It was too much responsibility and my fault for even thinking it was a good idea. You have enough on your mind. I will take the fall for today.'

'Bit late for that,' sniffs Alicia.

'Look, I understand,' he lowers his voice finally. 'I get it, okay?'

'But you could never.'

He clears his throat gently. 'What have, um, have you spoken to Mrs Beauchamp?'

'She said I was incompetent and I'd let everybody down. She shouted ridiculously loudly, it was demeaning, like I was a schoolgirl, and she wouldn't hear me out. She has no idea about him, about what he's done to me. It is terrifying that _he_ is still working in the same department.'

He narrows his eyes. 'I never even realised. I will sort that out.'

'Our new F1 might have died. Genuinely my fault for not issuing them with health and safety forms. The printer was on the blink and I hadn't listened to you properly this morning and only realised when Noel said, by which point it was too late to get organised. Letting them round after a weak introduction talk. Sending them round with other first years and allowing David to allocate them. Not putting a high risk patient into resus. Overlooking the fact that there was a sharps bin in their cubicle when there shouldn't have been. Putting a drinks cup into the bin because I was frazzled. Sod's law, the bin tips, Eddie puts his _hands_ on me, I didn't even realise he was still in the department, I mean, _why is he not arrested,_ and then I took him outside to shout and the student must've been picking up the needles when he slipped and cracked his head, and there was even more blood—'

'Hey, listen to me. Nobody did die. Everyone you saw today is still alive. Alright? That means something. We all have those disaster days where we question ourselves and our purpose entirely. Without balance, you wouldn't appreciate being on top of the world.'

'Top of the world,' scoffs Alicia, kicking the door a little too hard. 'That will be the day.'

'Although you can't see it right now, you have to trust that your happiness is round the corner. It is understandable that you feel so confused right now, and that your emotions are heightened because of the ordeal you have been through—'

It is unclear whether he is trying to convince her or himself, but it is not working. They know, deep down, it is more than just a mood swing induced by a distressing event.

'Don't call it an _ordeal_!'

'Bump in the road, then,' he corrects himself quickly. 'Focus on happy memories. Remember the last time you were on top of the world?'

Alicia does remember a time. February. One certain chilly Tuesday evening where life couldn't have felt any better, despite the attachment of a secret she was burying deep within. How she laughed that night, they both did, so hard and until tea flew out her nose, worryingly spattering the new brown rug. Overdoing the pizza had made her feel worse the nauseous, but the fuzzy feeling inside made it all fine. More than fine. She has known it every day since it happened. She knows it still. She _knows_ she would trade a limb just to have all that back.

He appraises her quietly and swallows. 'I do.'

'If I could turn back time, I would, but I can't,' she shakes her head, eyes brimming with tears. 'And I know you feel partly responsible — to some degree. I'm asking you to set yourself free.'

'Free from what?' Ethan's forehead creases with fatigue.

'Look, you are hardly an idiot, please don't make me spell it out to you.'

Both of them stare at the other tensely until he lets out a poorly timed chuckle, a result of pent up nerves and upset.

She gulps and squeezes her eyes closed. 'Distancing yourself might be what is needed to free yourself from the stupid guilt you're feeling. None of this is your fault, how could it possibly be? I can't stand how caught up in it you're becoming. One thing or another is an obstacle in your life. You deserve to feel light and without a worry in the world.'

He bites his lip in bemused frustration. 'Currently I am standing in the women's toilets, skiving off cubicles, leaving the department to fend for themselves, in shit up to my neck, still paying off my dead brother's debt and managing on four broken hours of sleep across three days. I don't recall the last time I consumed something, other than a Belvita biscuit with a likely expiry date of May 2016, _and_ I haven't pissed since I came on shift.'

She dries her eyes furiously, feeling a pang of the worst kind of responsibility. 'Exactly, so go and do things for yourself and stop chasing after me! I cannot and probably never will be able to give you what you need.'

'You are still missing the point,' he gives a jaded laugh. 'How do you know what I need? I am here because I want to be. None of that ever changed.'

'Nibbles, the world is your oyster,' smiles Alicia bravely. 'Time you went and had fun.'

'Much as I aim to please, if I did as you instructed, I would be infinitely more miserable. What is life if one is always wondering about the " _what ifs_ " and dwelling on what never happened?'

She hangs her head a little. 'Well, don't dwell.'

 _'Alicia?'_

Her eyes stayed glued to her feet until he coughs a little more pointedly. Subconsciously, she rather wanted him to prompt her. And simultaneously all along knew he wouldn't give up.

'I'm not going anywhere.'


	8. chapter 8

Truthfully, Ethan knows has been there far too long. Staring. Watching in case something goes horribly wrong, like the flames jumping out or her underestimating the close proximity between where she is standing and the fire pit itself. Orange flames are a contrast against the inky night sky. A unique view, almost, if it weren't for the stereotype: sad girl sets clothes alight.

Breathing against the glass pane, he watches as it predictably clouds. Very real breath forming droplets of condensation. He is human and thankful for that alone.

Alicia outside, well, she might as well be insentient.

After standing there for a while, he deduces that if she turns around, he will look either insane or overly smothering of her. But neither can he back off. He slides the door open carefully and winces as the hinges screen.

'Hey,' he whispers. 'What can I do?'

Instead of being greeted with the misery he was expecting, she turns round, blank and emotionless.

'Go home,' she replies in a small voice. 'Like I said earlier.'

He pads out, down the steps, on to the concrete patio. Warmth exuding from the fire nearly knocks him a few feet backwards. 'I had to tell Mrs Beauchamp this afternoon, you know I did. You can't be cross at me. Eddie being in work breached so many laws. Not to mention how uncomfortable it was making you. Today was totally not your fault, contrary to popular belief.'

Another heavy silence falls over them and it is almost as heavy as the blanket of smoke. His lungs already start to heave pathetically, a cry for help, whilst she remains outwardly unaffected. Smokers tend to have a larger tolerance, he remembers. Not that his best friend is a chain smoker. He would know if that were the case. More, she turns to a cigarette after a particularly taxing shift. And he never brings it up. Alicia feels self conscious about it and he feels like the idiot schoolboy who drinks in the PSHE teacher's every word about the perils of nicotine.

'Well, you saved me a job,' replies Alicia decidedly.

He would cry with relief at her concession except she is blowing hot and cold; one minute it is " _get out Ethan_ " and the next minute she is hanging on his every word.

'You've burned everything you wanted to burn. Probably time you came in. July heatwaves don't seem to last into the night. At least, not until this time. Much chillier when the sun goes in.'

'Just want to watch the embers till they fade,' she answers. 'Then every last trace of him is destroyed.'

Ethan briefly wonders about DNA evidence for the police. The officers haven't been in touch, but it has only been 48 hours. No doubt they will want some of her clothes for their investigation. So why didn't he stop her when she was rooting through the bin bags for every last scrap of material? Or more importantly, coax her out of destroying the expensive Zara jacket embellished with gold that she used to adore? In the pit of his stomach there is still residual guilt for everything he could have stopped happening. She has always been an 'in the moment' woman, and denying her the spontaneity and relief seemed more immoral than letting her set fire to her money. Watching her do as she pleased and encouraging it was all he could have done. Plus, when in a certain mindset, she is an unstoppable force.

Wholly irrelevant whether or not the courts believe the account. It happened, _Christ_ , it happened, and he knows Alicia better than anyone could. She is many things but never a liar. And her torment — he'd do anything to fix that.

 _Anything at all._

'Okay,' he nods once with a smile. 'I will be inside and a bath will be waiting for you.'

For a moment he sees a glimpse, her blue eyes wide and hopeful, sparkling away in the dim light. The old version of his best friend. Everything had faded back for a blissful second. Now it's soured again, just as quickly, as if she remembered all too quickly not to drop her guard.

Bubbles line the inside of his stomach as he races indoors, climbs the stairs, practically jumps into the bathroom and lands his hands on the taps, twisting them and turning them on full blast. Eager would be an understatement. Though it was only for a second, he has just seen a version of her he once loved. A precious moment. Better still, a suggestion that not every ounce of life was drained out of her that night, as he was beginning to fear.

He dips an elbow into the shallows of the water, finding it coated in suds upon lifting it up. Hot water would get rid of the stench of smoke but might sting the bruises. 24 hours have passed since he last checked the yellowing marks, and though they appeared to be healing well, she would still flinch when his fingers so much as grazed her skin. Hands of a doctor in his mind, perhaps hands of someone much more intimate in hers. Ethan shudders again.

The smell of bonfires has crept in through the bathroom door, which is odd, considering he distinctly remembers shutting it tightly. Nostalgic in many ways. November 5th has always brought new things for him, each year a different circumstance. Feelings of fondness are strongly associated with the date for its own sake. To stop his mind wandering yet again, he swirls with the water carelessly with an arm. Some sloshes over the side of the basin and his eyes scan the poky room for a towel, a flannel, a jumper — anything remotely a suitable fabric to mop up the spillage.

Something crackles outside.

Confused, his brow furrows automatically. A glow of colour behind the window catches his eye. And a scream.

There isn't much thought behind his next actions: shutting off the taps and slamming back the door and striding over to the junk room window, grabbing back the concertina blinds and forcing his bare eyes to squint and make sense of the scene below.

Fire.


	9. chapter 9

Smoke smacks Ethan in the face the second he strides through the kitchenette. Once cream walls are already singed with a film coating of black ash. Ten minutes, if that, is the amount of time he was upstairs running a bath. Trying to do a nice thing. Plumes of grey encircle the kitchen and he fumbles for the switch, hoping artificial light will help him see his way to the back door. Predictably no help. He begins shaking, chest heaving with both the fumes and sordid panic.

Somehow he manages it, jams the keys in and twists but the lock does not turn. Oh _God_ — he shut it when he went inside. He tries another to no avail. If only she had listened to his multiple suggestions to take all the ever-accumulating crap off the key ring; fluffy pink pom-poms and a glitter letter 'A' and at least ten different keys are without doubt hindering him. And it could be what costs them. A silver one catches underneath his thumb and he tries to inspect it, but visibility is poor at best, worse without his contacts. It looks too large anyway.

' _Urgggggh_ —'

The door won't budge. Shit. His arms heave at the handle, body buckling beneath him, exerting all the strength he has left. Suddenly he isn't pulling anymore. Glancing down at his hands, he sees the handle splayed across both palms. His lungs are struggling now, coughing, sputtering, choking up the poison that creeps in. Good oxygen supply is a prerequisite for any sort of physical strength, and without it, he is desperately lagging. He collapses against the glass, defeated, but the smoke is unrelenting and pushes him harder against the material. He must rebound. Though his whole body burns, he knows he has little time to think.

Mercifully the kitchen window is still ajar. Spotting this almost reduces him to tears, but he doesn't stop, not even for a second, and grabs the bunch of keys as he scales the countertop and windowsill, then lands on his feet outside. Climbing is becoming an unfortunately frequent happening, he notes.

As he wildly scans the garden, he sees her almost instantly. It would have been easy to miss: slumped against the wall and fiddling with the ashes absentmindedly. Orange flames lick and curl against the plastic garden chair three feet away.

 _'Alicia!'_ he yells.

She flinches a little at the tone but does not look up and continues to make patterns on the patio with her fingers.

'Are you alright?! Listen, I can see you might feel stuck, but if you go round the back of the table, you can clear the fire!'

Her bleached hair is darkened and matted by soot and clothing grubby, but her complexion is pale than ever before. The flames dance before her and she seems transfixed by them, eyes following as they dart from object to object. Like it's a thing of beauty and not a hazard.

'It is important that you get up, Alicia, there is no time to sit about!

There is a indistinct mumbled response and all of a sudden, fury replaces his sympathy.

'You are out of your mind! There is help, there are options—'

'I like watching the fire burn,' she answers quietly. 'Everything that once caused pain can be destroyed and turned right back into gases. Satisfying to think like that. Takes away from the significance of things.'

'I know you do,' he says, forcing a steady tone. 'But you've been watching it a long time now.'

'I could watch it forever, even if it ends me,' she replies lightly.

'It's not safe,' he wheezes. 'Can't you s-see what damage it is doing?'

'Damage,' she says, disguising a splutter with a faint little laugh. 'This is going to fix everything. You'll see.'

An acute awareness soaks through his veins quicker than the toxic fumes did: acting quickly is the only hope either of them have. Deliberating over whether or not she is of sound mind would not only be silly, but a trivial use of time. He almost runs over to her, dodging the fire where possible, and scoops her up quickly. Carrying her is excruciatingly painful; she does not bear her own weight even minimally and his muscles are starved of what they need. It is a wonder he can even move to do it. Defying physiology itself is thought to be impossible, but perhaps it is happening. Maybe the last remaining particles of clean might air, by some miracle, worked their way to him. He would thank God, but he has never doubted religion more.

His exhaustion hasn't taken over completely by the time he manages to keel them both over safely on the kerb outside the terraced houses. Staggering twenty metres down the drive was no mean feat and he feels weak, weaker than weak. The air at the front of the houses still carries residual lingering smoke. Having consultancy qualifications certainly brings no comfort to the situation: his anxiety is through the roof as he realises just how poorly they are. In honesty, he knows he has been through Hell and back many times before.

The same can't be said for her.

Alicia sits in between his legs, on the concrete, completely tarnished and bedraggled by the fire. She looks ill now — noticeably so. In spite of her stubbornness and how determined she was to stay by the fire, she was calm when he dragged her up and away. Never once did she question it or his motives. Neither did she scream or lash out.

'Did you make the fire spread on purpose?' Ethan asks tentatively, eyeing up a silhouetted neighbour in a bedroom window, wearing a dressing gown and clutching the phone to their ear.

'Not on purpose—,' she coughs violently. 'I saw it happen and just couldn't intervene.'

'Your lovely new home though,' he says. 'Surely you must have felt some attachment to the place? Think of how destroyed it's going to be.'

'Only a roof,' she shrugs weakly.

'We will talk to someone.'

She peers up at him. 'Talk to who?'

'A person that is trained to help you.'

'No, no—'

She moves to get up but he lands his hand firmly on her shoulder, guiding her back down to the floor.

'If we have evidence you have been through trauma,' he says gently. 'Quite possibly you can then shake any charges brought against you.'

Alicia's eyes widen. 'What charges?'

'Criminal damage, endangering other residents of the street—'

'It would have been better if I had just gone up in flames,' she murmurs thickly.

Though he has kept face so far, this is the final straw. The comment that breaks him. Pain constricts his throat and he is forced to swallow, but all he can taste is the pungent smoke — a reminder of what could have killed them both. All down to recklessness and pretending that she was absolutely fine. He could have preempted a disaster like this, the depth of her scarring, but chose to stick his head in the sand when she needed him to speak up the most.

Sirens approach and wake the whole city, a cacophony of different vehicles blasting warnings into the quiet at rhythmic intervals. A tear leaks down Alicia's cheek, visible only in the glow of the streetlight. This is enough to tell him she finally knows. As two ambulances and three fire engines turn the corner, he thinks back. The bottle of wine will still be waiting patiently in the lounge and the tub upstairs full to brim of lukewarm water, bubbles now nothing more than suds.


End file.
